She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. Spurlock bent his head to his knees. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. You have to marry me. "By George!" he exclaimed. He made his speech a little elaborately. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. “Hold on.
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